Friday, March 17, 2017

I don’t shop. And when I do, it’s so rare, I need instructions about where to slide or insert the little card thingy.I also love to
read.

All of this
will become relevant . . .

When the kids
were little, we went to the library.

A lot.

It builds character.

We had our
routines. Which usually consisted of me hauling a great bag of books into the
place.

And another great
bag of books out of the place.

Why do so many
of my life’s memories include me carting heavy loads?

Just wondering
. . .

On many of our
visits, several of the books I carried in and out were for me.

This is both
good and bad.

Because I read
a lot. Which was good.

But I also
brought whatever I was reading with me wherever I went in the house. And,
because I’m unorganized, usually left
it there. So, when the time came for our weekly library trip, I couldn’t yell
at my kids for displaced books because I was the worst offender.

Sigh.

On this
particular occasion, I had lost the book I was reading.

Really lost
it.

No amount of
hunting and cleaning and interrogating family members brought that little
beauty to light.

Finally, in
desperation, I decided I would simply have to purchase said book.

During our
library visit, I talked to the girl at the counter, explained my dilemma, and
paid for the stupid book.

Then gathered
my kids and headed toward the exit and my great bag of books that had been slid
through and was waiting for me beyond the turnstile.

As we neared
the gate, a great electronic shriek filled the room. Definitely not a ‘library’
sound.

It startled
all of us.

Including the
people behind the desk.

“Ma’am?” one
of the girls said. “Do you have an unscanned library book?”

I looked at my
children, all bookless, and shook my head.

“May we
examine your purse?”

Nodding, I handed
it to her and she opened it.

And there,
nestled among the used Kleenex, lipbalm and hairbrushes, was the lost book.

I am not
making this up.

Both of us
gaped at it like we had spotted a snake nesting in the warm confines of my handbag.

“That’s it!” I
exclaimed unnecessarily.

She pulled it
out and looked at me.

I don’t
remember what happened after that. I think they gave me my money and kept the
book. Everything was a blur.

I should tell you I have no idea of how that book got into my purse.Ahem . . .

I swear I’m
not indifferent to rules. I
understand how a library works—the whole borrowing and returning thing. I also
know that when you wish to purchase a book, you go to a book store, pay your money,
and then stuff your book into your bag.

Knowing isn't doing, I guess.

So, if you’re
considering going to the local library to apply for a membership card and need
a personal recommendation from a friend?

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

What an amazing experience!
The Elves and the Shoemaker was my very first attempt at writing, producing and directing.
And I survived.
Would I do anything differently?
Nope.
Enjoyed every uncertain, educating, sleepless, difficult, breathtaking, teary, exhilarating minute!
To all my elves and shoemakers: Thank you. A HUGE thank you.
I love you all!
Pictures by : Kristi Milner Pfeiffer.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Our play has wrapped.Today and tomorrow? Memories of The Elves and the Shoemaker:

Their parents were all in the cast or backstage,
Their grandparents, too, with the play were engaged.
Two little girls in the large gallery,
Two last little sprigs on their family’s tree,
Had grown bored with the play they had seen from Day One.
That first day was great! The rest, not so fun.
They’d seen scenes through first blocking and all incarnations,
Knew all of the songs and heard all the Orations.
And while those in the room were still fixed on the show,
Running sound and effects. Lights above and below,
Two little girls weren’t attentive at all,
They wanted to run. They wanted to sprawl.
They did not want to sit in their chairs quietly,
They wanted to dance, laugh and giggle. Times three.
But Grampa, just sitting there, manning the lights,
Had to keep ‘shushing’ his two little mites.
Then in an effort to give them a scare,
Vowed to tape two little butts to their chairs.
Two little girls sat down quietly then,
But those silly old wiggles soon started again.
And then Grampa, still working the lighting board’s keys
Heard a sweet little voice, and it said, "Grampa, please—
We’ve done everything mom sent for we two to share,
Grampa, please, could you tape both our butts to the chair?"Every day we learn something, and today, here is one:When is a threat not a threat? When it’s fun!Ahhh! Doesn't Poetry just smooth out the wrinkles?Visit my good friends and see what they've done with Poetry Monday:Jenny_o at Procrasintating DonkeyDelores at Mumblings

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Dad was a
hopeless clutterer. He was never unclean; just disorganized. And he did not
really have the patience to bother with tidying things up - unless it was his
vehicles or machinery or building a granary, and then everything was kept in
tip-top shape. But to actually sit down and try to organize things, Dad could
not be bothered. For example, whenever the family was getting ready to go on a trip,
Mom would start sending things out with all of us to Dad, who had the chore of
packing it in the trunk of the car. It would be easiest to say that Dad's
inability to fit everything into the trunk stemmed from the fact that rarely
knew ahead of time how much he was expected to fit into the trunk - and he
always ran out of trunk before suitcases. But I think it would be closer to the
truth to state that Dad simply started putting things into the trunk with
little thought as to spatial arrangement, and much space was wasted or ill-used.
And so, the trunk filled up before the goodies quit coming. Dad would
eventually give up, and go to tell Mom that she was going to need a three-ton
truck to transport all of 'that stuff'. Mom would invariably come out to the
car for inspection, and take EVERYTHING out of the trunk, and start over. Dad,
at this point, would hover nearby, trying his best to convince Mom that she
might as well give up, she was never going to get it all in anyway. Mom would
continue, telling Dad that only "a dumb ezzle" would pack a trunk
"like a sausage" or some other such loving jab, while Dad would snicker
and continue to try to intimidate her into giving up as he had. After a little
while, Mom would clamber out of the trunk, say something to the effect of
"is that all there is?", and then drag Dad over to look at her
packing job. "Well, I'll swan!!", Dad would exclaim as he examined
the trunk, which was invariably little more than one-half full. And then he
would snicker and grin, amid accusations that Mom had thrown half a dozen
things away while he wasn't looking - all the while knowing that it was simply
Mom's superior packing techniques that made the difference.

Dad was a simple man. Now I don't mean that in
a pejorative sense at all. What I mean is that to Dad, life was very simple --
black and white, with no shades of grey. Everything was either right or wrong. There
was no teetering in between. I remember one time watching the evening news next
to Dad, one of his favorite activities. I don't recall the particular incident,
but I do recall that there was a report on the news that evening of one of the
senseless battles that had been raging, resulting in some deaths. Dad's eyes didn't
leave the screen, and he said: "Now what do you suppose they would want to
do something like that for?" At the time, I thought it was just Dad's way
of expressing his disgust with violence, for he was a gentle and peaceful man. I
thought it was just a passing comment, inspired by the carnage on the TV screen.
But when I thought about it later—many times, in trying to understand my father—I
realized that the comment was more than just a rhetorical question. Dad REALLY
didn't understand. He could not for any reason fathom why people had to do such
things to each other. In a way, it was innocence—and I guess that's why I say
he was a simple man. He could not understand many of the complexities of
society. In many ways, I envy Dad. He created his own world, and lived quite
happily in it. I am most grateful that he chose to include me in his simple world.
It was great while it lasted, and I often long for more of it.

Dad was a spiritual man too, in his own way. He
understood the inner being in himself, and he understood more about humankind
than I think most psychologists could lay claim to. This was evident through a
little habit that he had—a good habit, I must say—of collecting poems. For as
long as I can remember, Dad was always clipping poems from whatever reading material
that he was into at the moment. For the most part, the poems came from the
Wheat Pool Budget, a little newsletter affair that came out once a month or so,
for farmers that were members of the Wheat Pool organization. Others he would
clip from newspapers, or write down as he heard them. When Dad died, Mom asked
what I would like that was his. I asked if I could have his collection of poems.
I have often thought I should make a book of them; they would make a wonderful
anthology of poetry (and a pretty big one, at that). But I haven't; they sit in
a file folder, unorganized. Just as Dad left them. When the rush of life gets
to me, and I wish Dad were around to give me a word of wisdom, or a grin and a
snicker, or tell me one of his goofy jokes to cheer me up, I go to his poems. It
is there I am able to find his philosophy on life. It is there I find comfort
and solace.

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .